


What You Deserve

by Celia_and



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Ben is going to change that, Do not underestimate the depth of Rey's abandonment issues, Domestic Fluff, Emotional baggage smut, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Female sexual pleasure, Foster Care, Imagine how angsty you think this fic can possibly be and then double that, Masturbation, One night stand turns into forever, Orgasm, Praise Kink, Rey has never had an orgasm, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, Texting, Tinder date, Vaginal Sex, parental abandonment, reference to drug abuse, safe sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:35:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24541666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celia_and/pseuds/Celia_and
Summary: “You deserve to have good things. Including sex.”“I told you,” she retorts, exasperated, “sex is good for me.”“You deserve to have great things, then. Wonderful things.”She restrains a skeptical eye-roll only because it would be too rude, but he sees it on her face anyway.“You don’t believe me,” he says, a kind of pained wonder in his mouth.“It doesn’t matter.”“It does matter,” he insists. “You deserve everything.”----------Rey has never had an orgasm. Her Tinder date is determined to change that.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 387
Kudos: 1443
Collections: Dev’s Reylo Favorites, Reylo Prompt Fills (@reylo_prompts)





	1. Nice

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this fic on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/CeliaAnd2/status/1263565454074941440) in response to this prompt:
> 
> “Rey has trouble getting off, and Ben has to work harder at it. He’s so patient and kind with her and is willing to spend the whole night making her come no matter how long it takes because she deserves to feel good.”
> 
> I originally intended this as a text fic with smatterings of narrative, but _wow_ , has it turned into more than I expected. Please be aware: I’ve heard from quite a few people on Twitter that reading this has stirred up feelings surrounding their own history of sexual pleasure or lack thereof and the extent to which it’s been valued and prioritized by past partners. If that’s not something you’d like to process for yourself right now, maybe consider giving this story a miss. Take care of yourselves. ❤️
> 
> This stunning moodboard is the handiwork of the lovely [@LaneReads](https://twitter.com/LaneReads)!
> 
>  _Edited to add:_ The part that I haven’t posted to Twitter begins in [chapter four](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24541666/chapters/59360125).

* * *

She gets home at 6:37 that evening, having splurged on a Lyft. She could’ve texted Ben back to tell him to come later. But for some unfamiliar, very un-Rey-like reason, she suspects that if she texted him at all it would be to cancel. She doesn’t exactly know why. She’s not _nervous,_ of course. The very idea is preposterous.

She still isn’t entirely sure why she agreed to see him again. That was the whole point of choosing Tinder, not freaking Match.com: just one date. If she hits it off with the guy, she brings him back to her place. If not, no problem.

Ben was _sweet_. She hadn’t been prepared for that: for the way his eyes lit up and he stood up straighter when he first caught sight of her at the restaurant. Or his awkward attempt at chivalrously pulling her chair out at the same time as she reached for it. He was like a puppy. An eager, hopeful puppy of a personality in _that_ body. She’d decided to take him home before they’d even ordered appetizers.

She putters around her apartment, not tidying. It’s the principle of the thing. If guys want to get laid they can handle a little mess. She’s never had any complaints. About the state of the apartment, or—the other thing.

Was the fake orgasm really so obvious? Have all her dates realized it but just never said anything? She can’t imagine that’s the case. They all seem happy to get off and get out, and that’s how she likes it. She likes watching them come: loves to watch for that second or two when they lose control, when they’re vulnerable. She never loses control. It’s better that way.

6:48. Why is the clock moving so slowly all of a sudden? She should’ve taken the bus after all. She decides to take a shower, for something to do. It’s 6:57, by her phone, when she leaves the bathroom in a towel and hears voices out in the hallway. Her next-door neighbor talking to ... is that Ben? She double-checks the time. There’s no knock at the door, but she throws on a robe and goes to the peephole. Ben is standing in the middle of the hall, holding one wrist loosely in his other hand. He shifts from one foot to the other and checks his watch.

She opens the door. “You’re early,” she says, more accusatorily than she probably meant to.

“Rey!” His eyes automatically sweep her body. “I was just going to wait until you were home, and ready.”

Ready? When will _that_ be? “I’m home. Come in, I guess.” She stands back and lets him in, then bolts the door behind. “So how are we going to do this?” she asks brusquely.

He looks a little lost standing there. He didn’t have the chance to look lost the night before, because as soon as she shut the door he had her body pressed up against it. “I ... don’t know.”

“Well, one of us should probably know what they’re doing,” she snaps, “and your texts seemed to indicate that it would be you.”

“Hey,” he says, too gently, with those puppy-dog eyes. “It’s okay if you don’t want to do this.”

She actually, honest-to-God considers it: telling him to leave. It would be easy. She’d just close the door behind him, delete his number, and pull up Tinder on her phone. Schedule another date. It would probably be better that way, come to think of it.

“No. I do.” She crosses her arms defensively in front of her, keenly aware that she’s wearing nothing but a short, thin robe.

“Okay.” He smiles. “I’m really glad, Rey.”

“Don’t ... don’t say things like that.”

“Like what?” He looks genuinely puzzled.

“Don’t be sweet to me. Don’t make it a thing. This is just you helping me out, okay?”

He looks chastened. “Okay.” Why does her heart ache a little?

“I mean, you still get to come too, of course. I can give you a blowjob if you want, or we can, you know ...” _Wow. Use your words, Rey_. “Have sex. I just won’t come, from that.”

He frowns. “I didn’t come here for that. This is about you.”

“What?” she asks quickly. “You didn’t?”

“Sorry, I thought I was clear in my texts.” He actually looks sorry, too—that’s the crazy part. “I just want to make you come. Or try to, anyway.”

She can’t help but ask what she’s been wondering all day. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you care?”

He mulls it over before he answers. “You deserve to have good things. Including sex.”

“I told you,” she retorts, exasperated, “sex _is_ good for me.”

“You deserve to have great things, then. Wonderful things.”

She restrains a skeptical eye-roll only because it would be too rude, but he sees it on her face anyway.

“You don’t believe me,” he says, a kind of pained wonder in his mouth.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” he insists. “You deserve everything.”

They’re still standing just inside her apartment. He hasn’t even taken off his shoes. It’s barely past seven. They have _hours._ Hours, with this double-wide refrigerator of a man who thinks she deserves things and doesn’t care if he comes, as long as she does. She doesn’t know if she can do it.

“I just need you to promise me something,” he says seriously. “All of tonight, no pretending. If something doesn’t feel good, tell me. Whatever you want, _tell me_. I’ll do it. Anything.”

She nibbles her thumbnail. “Remember your promise, too. If I don’t come, then you won’t be upset.”

“I promise,” he says solemnly.

“Okay.” She takes a deep breath, steeling herself. “Me too.”

The silence that fills up the air between them starts teetering on the edge of awkward. “So how do you want to do this?” he finally asks.

Her stomach rumbles. “I need to eat dinner.”

“Oh, of course.” He shuffles his feet. “I should’ve taken you out. That was stupid.”

“I have leftovers. Chicken okay?”

“Fine,” he agrees readily. “What can I do?”

She smiles. “Maybe take your shoes off?”

He does, and she goes over to the kitchen to pull last night’s carryout containers from the fridge. She’d ordered the family sizes, which was just as well, because Ben could probably eat a whole chicken by himself. She pops a container in the microwave and calls over her shoulder, “Make yourself at home!”

She comes out to the living room a few minutes later, laden with containers that she deposits on the coffee table, by the couch where Ben is sitting stiffly. He jumps to his feet to try to help, but she waves him back and fills a couple of glasses of water at the sink. Plates: check. Utensils: check. Napkins (well, folded paper towels): check. She’s killing it at this whole hostess thing.

She settles down on the couch next to him, careful not to let her robe ride up too high. Not yet, anyway.

They fill their plates and start eating. Rey lets it stretch on for a minute before she finally says, “We’re allowed to talk, you know.”

“I know.”

“Do you want to?”

“To what?”

“Talk.”

“Yes,” he says quickly. “I just don’t know what to say.”

“I don’t get you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were talkative at dinner last night,” she observes through a mouthful.

“That was different.”

“Different how?”

“I don’t know.”

She sighs, playfully exasperated. “Tell me something you’re good at.”

“I’m not good at things.”

“Well this is going well,” she drawls, smiling.

“It’s not my fault,” he yelps in protest. “You asked a hard question!”

“That was literally the easiest question ever.” She pops a piece of chicken in her mouth.

“Not for me! Just because you’re amazing, you take it for granted that other people are good at things too, and I’m not.”

She decides to ignore the _amazing_ part. “You have to be good at something,” she insists. “Just tell me one thing. Do you make great espresso? Are you the reigning tic-tac-toe champion of the Tri-County area? I should warn you now: there’s no limit to how ridiculous my suggestions are going to get if you don’t answer.”

“I’m good at sex,” he blurts out, and then looks like he wishes it unsaid the next second. Even in the dim light she can see his cheeks start to flush pink.

“Oooh,” she pounces. “That’s a very interesting talent you have, Benjamin. Care to tell me more about it?” The tip of ear not hidden by his hair is bright red. “You can do it but you can’t talk about it?” she playfully needles.

“It’s easier to do things then talk about them,” he protests, with a face like a July farmers market tomato.

“You didn’t seem to have any trouble talking last night,” she says, and squirms at the memory of the sweetly filthy litany that had dripped from his lips.

“It’s ... different.”

“What do you mean?”

“Rey,” he groans.

“No, please, I really want to know.” And she does, so much that she puts down her fork for a minute.

He looks at her for a couple seconds, and then a couple more, and long enough that _she_ starts to feel her cheeks burn at the intensity of his gaze.

“It’s like playing a role,” he says finally. “Not in an insincere way, I mean, but I’m not usually good at talking to people, so I made myself enough of a script to get through a date successfully. It took a while. But then women started letting me have sex with them often enough that I got good at that too.”

“What do you like about it?” she asks.

She’s close enough to him to see the slow stretch of his pupils as they dilate. “Everything.”

“Tell me specifically,” she says lowly. “What’s your favorite part?” At first she doesn’t understand why his eyes flick away from her abashedly. “Is it a kink?”

“No, it’s not a kink,” he answers, looking for all the world as if he wants her to intuit it without his having to say.

And it takes a few more silent seconds, but she does. “Your favorite part is making them come.”

He doesn’t deny it, just looks a wordless apology with those pleading eyes.

“You lied,” she says softly. “You _are_ going to be disappointed if I don’t.”

“No, Rey, I ...”

She doesn’t wait to hear. She springs up, grabs the carryout containers from the coffee table, and hurries to the kitchen. He picks up the glasses and pursues.

She sets the containers on the counter and tries with trembling fingers to close them up. “You lied,” she says again, not turning to face him. “You lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie.” He says it so quietly that she almost can’t hear it over the ineffective clatter of plastic on plastic.

“I don’t believe you,” she says, finally closing the lid with a snap. She stacks them and goes to the fridge to put them in, and when she stands back up and closes the fridge door she still doesn’t turn around. “Please leave.”

“I will,” he says, “if that’s what you really want. Just say the word, and I’ll leave. Rey.”

“Why should I believe you?” she pleads, still holding on to the handle of the fridge door.

“You deserve things.” It comes as a low soothing rumble.

”You don’t know that.”

“Sure I do,” he counters. Is it just her imagination or is his voice coming closer? “You deserve someone to help you. To stay as long as you want.” He’s behind her now, close enough that she can feel his breath on the back of her neck. That must be why she shivers. It can’t be the _stay as long as you want._

She doesn’t believe him, but _he_ does, and that’s enough. “Okay,” she whispers.

“Okay?” he asks quietly.

She nods, and not even half a second later his hands are on her waist, holding her, tugging her ever so slightly back into his warmth. When her shoulder blades brush his chest it’s like a signal for him to envelop her. His arms snake around her midsection, pinning her to him, and it’s not just his breath that’s on her neck now, it’s his lips. His hands glide firmly but slowly—so slowly that with the distraction of his mouth on her, she hardly notices how high up his right hand has gotten until his thumb brushes her nipple through the robe. She gasps.

“Use your words,” he murmurs against her skin. “Tell me what you like.”

“That,” she whispers. “Like that.”

She lets her head loll to the side to allow him easier access to her neck and lets go of the fridge handle with one hand to hold onto his forearm instead.

“Tell me,” he prompts, tracing lazy circles around her nipple.

“Inside,” she pants.

“You want my finger inside you?”

“No,” she whines, “inside the robe.”

“See?” he praises. “You told me what you want, and now I can give it to you. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

It wasn’t. Rey is surprised how easy it was, to want something and to say it. And when his hand slips under the V of her robe and finds her nipple skin-on-skin, she’s _so_ happy she asked. He rubs back and forth, slowly, like they have all the time in the world. Which they don’t, but it feels that way. They have all the time in the night, at least.

“Ben,” she says without knowing why, just needing to say his name.

“What is it? What do you need?”

She doesn’t answer; she holds tighter on to the fridge and his arm.

His hand freezes on her breast. She wiggles, chasing the pad of his thumb. “You wanted something and you didn’t tell me. That isn’t how this works.”

“I want—” she tries to think, but it’s hard with his whole body against hers. “I don’t know. _More._ ”

“More of the same, or different?” he prompts, still not stroking her nipple.

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” She squirms in his grasp.

“Rey,” he breathes in her ear. “Rey.” His thumb resumes its trajectory and catches on the stiffened peak, and she can breathe again. “I need you to do something for me. Can you?”

She strokes his arm. “Mm hmm.”

“Can you tell me if you’re wet?”

“I think so. I don’t know.”

“Would you like me to find out?”

She nods, and the arm that had her pinned against him releases her so his hand can move south. It finds the opening in her robe and finds the juncture of her legs and she has to hold on to the fridge handle again with both hands. His finger nudges its way between her labia and finds a slick glide that waits there, and _oh,_ this is lovely.

She chokes out a little laugh.

“What’s funny?” he murmurs in her ear.

“You’re so ... _oh_ ... focused on or...gasms,” she gasps out as his finger slightly picks up the pace, parting her folds again and again with a wet _schlick_ that fills the air. “This is what ... I mean. It’s nice... _So_... nice.”

“It’s not an or,” he insists raggedly. “You should have my hand on your tit and my finger between your legs _and_ get to come.”

“I don’t know,” she says languidly, and then realizes she needs to clarify. “I don’t know how.”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, and kisses her hair, and for a moment she believes that it is. “When you make yourself come, has it ever happened while you’re standing?”

She forgets that she needs to answer, focused as she is on his finger and what it’s doing to her.

“Rey?” he prompts.

“What? No. Not ... standing.”

“Would you like to go to your bedroom?” he asks against her neck, where his lips have again found her skin.

“Mm hmm.”

He doesn’t hesitate before scooping her off her feet into his arms. She yelps in surprise, and her hands automatically cling to him. He chuckles. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

He knows where it is, of course, and nudges the door open with his foot. When they’re fully in the room he lets her down slowly, then straightens back up. They just stand there for a minute, looking at each other, until it gets to be too much and Rey looks down, fumbling with the tie of her robe. Her hands are clumsy, tying a new knot instead of loosening the old, and he finally smiles and stills them with his. She doesn’t know why his fingers should be trembling as they painstakingly undo the tangle, but she could swear that they are. Finally it slips free, and she stands there with the robe hanging open. The only light comes from the hallway.

“What do you want, Rey?” he asks softly, and why does it feel like it’s not about orgasms?

She turns away. “Turn on the lamp, and take off your shirt.”

“You’re so good at this.” She can hear the smile in his voice, even though she can’t see him. “Telling me what you want. You’re doing so well.”

She doesn’t want to want these words of his as much as she does. She doesn’t answer, just slips off the robe and turns back to face him, naked.

He’s looking down, occupied with the buttons of his shirt, so he doesn’t notice at first. It’s not until he has it all the way unbuttoned and starts to shrug one shoulder out of it that he sees her, and freezes. He gapes like he didn’t see it last night. He gapes like he’s never seen a naked woman before. Is this how he looks at every woman he has sex with? No wonder they have orgasms.

She stands there fighting the urge to cover herself until he realizes that he was in the middle of the task of taking his shirt off, and he finishes it, leaving it on the floor.

“What now?” he asks gruffly.

She folds her arms self-consciously across her chest. “You tell me.” Why is he just standing there? Isn’t he supposed to be making her come? What is she doing wrong?

“No, don’t,” he says quickly. “It’s okay. You’re doing well, Rey, _so_ well. How about I give you some options, okay?”

She doesn’t uncross her arms, but she relaxes just a little. “Okay.”

“Would you like me to eat you out?”

She shakes her head quickly. “No.”

“Okay, good, Rey. That’s good if you know you don’t want that. Would you like me to finger you?”

“It won’t help,” she says impatiently. “It doesn’t work, like that.”

“How does it work, when you come?”

She stands there stubbornly silent, biting the inside of her lip.

“Would it be easier if you show me?”

“I don’t want you to watch,” she quickly replies. “I mean, I don’t want you to just stand there and watch me.”

“Okay. Do you want me to touch you?”

“Yes. I don’t know. Yes.”

“When you make yourself come, are you sitting up or lying down?”

“Sitting up.” It feels like twenty questions, only neither of them knows the right answer.

“Do you want me to be able to see your face?”

“No.”

“Okay.” He thinks for a minute. “Do you want to lean back against me? That way I can touch you but not see you.”

“Yes.” She shivers, and not from cold. “Ben...”

“What is it?”

“I really want to come.”

“I know.”

“Will you at least have sex with me, if I can’t?” _I don’t want you to be disappointed. Please don’t be disappointed with me._

“If you want me to.” His voice is gruff.

She can’t quite tell, backlit as he is by the lamp, but she thinks he’s erect. She hopes he is. She hopes he wants her.

He climbs slowly onto the bed, never breaking eye contact, and settles himself at the head. He spreads his legs so there’s enough room for her to sit in between. He puts his hands on the bed next to him. And he waits.

She slowly uncrosses her arms to walk over to the bed and crawl awkwardly toward him. She tries not to touch his thighs as she does, which is a pointless impulse given that she’s about to be cradled between them. She settles herself stiffly, leaning back gingerly against him, and then she looks up and realizes her mistake.

The mirrored closet door is open at just the right angle to reflect her back to herself, and not just to her but to him too. She tenses and he looks up and sees why. He kisses her temple. “I can close it.”

“No,” she says, her mouth dry. She’s flooded with a heady recklessness. “Leave it.” If she’s the kind of person who can orgasm with someone else, she’s the kind of person who can do it while they’re watching.

She plants her feet on the bed outside of his thighs, so her center is obscenely open to her view and his. She wants things from him but she doesn’t know what they are to ask for them, so instead she takes two fingers to gather the wetness that her body made for her and uses it to trace circles on her clit, lightly at first. She watches him watching her and she can feel his breath hitch and his eyes widen as he sees her hand’s occupation.

She closes her eyes and relaxes back against him, enjoying the roll of the hardened bundle between her fingertips. It’s _nice._ Why can’t he understand that? Especially like this, with his whole chest to lean on, and his breath to catch and stutter above her.

“Rey?” he asks quietly.

“Mm?”

“Do you want me to do anything?”

“You can put your finger inside me, if you want,” she answers lazily, not opening her eyes. “Just one. And don’t move it.” She knows he’ll like it, that she knows what she wants.

“Good girl.” She preens.

His hand steals through the crevice that her thigh makes with her side, and he’s careful not to disturb her rhythm as he finds her entrance and slowly burrows in with one fingertip.

“Do you like that?” he asks, his breath labored, as if _he’s_ the one being pleasured.

“Mm hmm,” she answers, snuggling her head back into the crook of his neck. Her eyes are still closed.

“Tell me. With words.”

“Nice. _So_ nice.”

He’s probably bristling at her word choice, but it doesn’t matter, because she can’t see him. It’s happening sooner than it usually does: usually she has to work hard to get to this point, but the warmth starts to gather and spread, and maybe she can do it. Maybe he’ll be happy.

His finger gives her something to clench, and he holds his hand still and takes it. Her fingers move a little faster now, with a little more pressure, and this could be it. This might be a world record, for how fast she’s arrived here. She luxuriates in his warmth.

“Rey,” he says breathlessly. “Only if you want to. Open your eyes. But only if you want to.”

She wants to make him proud, she really does, but that’s asking too much, so she shakes her head.

“It’s okay.” He kisses her hair again. “Good girl. You’re doing so well.”

She doesn’t answer, just whines and leans into the sensation of her fingers and his, and the warmth is spreading now, and it gently bubbles until it fills her up and then slowly recedes. Her hand stills. She opens her eyes and smiles at him through the mirror.

“I did it,” she says proudly. “You don’t have to be disappointed after all.”

He stares at her blankly. He hasn’t taken his finger out of her. “You ... did what?”

“You can take your finger out now. What do you mean, did what?”

He slides his finger out slowly, looking like he’s trying to process something. That’s not what he should look like, she realizes. He should be happy. This is supposed to be his favorite part. Something’s wrong with her.

“Rey,” he says, sounding like he’s choosing his words carefully, “Is that what it’s always like, when you come?”

“Yeah, basically.” She stiffens. “Why?”

“I don’t ... Rey, that wasn’t an orgasm.”

She sits up all the way. “What do you mean?”

“That’s why it’s never anything more than nice or pleasant for you. Because you don’t come.”

She scoots out from between his legs and hurries over to where her robe fell. She puts it back on and ties it securely. “Why would you say that?”

“It’s true.” He hasn’t moved from the head of her bed.

“You’re wrong.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not.”

“Just because ... just because you’ve been with other women who have come differently, doesn’t mean you know my body better than me. Everyone is different.”

Why are his eyes full of pity? Why is he looking at her like that? Why does she want to slap him? “Everyone _is_ different, to some extent. But there are some things that are the same. I know what it feels like when someone orgasms around my finger. I know what it looks like when a woman orgasms by herself, even if I’m watching from across the room and not holding her. Rey. That wasn’t an orgasm.”

If tears are gathering in the corner of her eyes, it’s just because she’s angry. Why would he say that? “It was. That’s how I come. That’s how I always come.”

He doesn’t answer, just watches. She thinks she might be sick.

“Say it,” she spits out. “Don’t just ...” she waves her hand toward him. “Don’t just sit there and imply things, you coward. You asshole. I could’ve gone my whole life thinking that that’s how I orgasm and you had to come here and ...” She’s shaking. _“Say it!”_ she yells.

He at least has the decency to put both feet on the floor before turning toward her and answering. “You’ve never had an orgasm.”

“Get out,” she whispers.

He picks up his shirt and puts it on but doesn’t take the time to button it. She stands there seething. He turns back at her bedroom door. “I didn’t want to hurt you, Rey. I really didn’t mean to.”

His eyes are so earnest that she could almost believe him. She needs him to leave before she starts crying. “I don’t care.”

“I know,” he says sadly, and carefully shuts the door behind him. She waits until she hears the front door open and close too, before she allows the tears to come.

When she curls up on the bed to try to bury her hurt deep in a pillow, the sheets smell like loss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you need a small break from the real world right now, I hope this story might be able to help a little. Take care, and be gentle with yourselves. ❤️


	2. Good

Thursday

Friday

Saturday

Sunday

Monday

Tuesday

Wednesday

* * *

To his credit, Ben doesn’t ring the doorbell until 8:01. Slightly less to his credit, Rey has a clear view from her window when he arrives and parks at 7:24. She doesn’t know why it makes her angrier, knowing that he’s sitting there. His presence is a reminder of things that she doesn’t want to think about. Not that she’ll be able to forget them once he’s in her apartment. Her only consolation is that it’ll be better than last time, because now she doesn’t give a shit. If there’s anything that he’s disappointed about, that’s perfectly fine. She doesn’t care.

She doesn’t care at all.

When he rings, she answers the door in a faded old tee-shirt and baggy knee-length capris. She’s not sure her outfit could scream _I don’t care_ any louder if she tried. (And she did try: there was some serious closet rummaging.)

She opens the door and immediately wonders how she had forgotten how much of a puppy he looks. She knew in theory, of course; it was only a little over a week since she’d seen him last, so objectively of course she knew that his expression tended toward pleading and eager. But having it there in front of her, close enough to touch, is an entirely different thing.

That’s not the only thing she remembers about that face, though. Or that mouth. _You’ve never had an orgasm._ She hardens herself against him. “I told you not to be early.”

“I wasn’t,” he says worriedly, checking his phone.

“You were,” she says, turning away so he has to catch the door to keep it from closing on him. He enters meekly, contritely. She crosses her arms. “I want to be clear. You’re going to teach me how to fake an orgasm convincingly, and then you’re going to leave. We’re not going to have sex. You’re not going to try to convince me to try to actually orgasm. And under no circumstances is the word ‘sorry’ going to come out of your mouth.”

“Okay,” he croaks, then clears his throat and tries again. “Okay. That’s fine. How do you want to ...”

She’s all business. “What information do you need to be able to assess whether I’m doing it correctly?”

He goes slightly red. She remembers how much she liked seeing the crimson of his ear on the couch and she hates him for it a little. “I need to be able to see your muscles tense. And I need to feel ...” He trails off, abashed.

This is evidently another point when he wants her to read his mind, but she can’t do it today. “Use your words,” she snaps.

“I need to feel inside your vagina.”

“Why?” she retorts, taken aback.

He seems surprised that she’s surprised, and she doesn’t know why she shouldn’t be. This feels like a new betrayal by her body: that there’s apparently some essential element to female orgasms that involves his finger inside her, and her body never told her about it. “To feel if you’re clenching correctly.”

“Oh, I’m _so_ looking forward to you telling me if I’m _clenching correctly,”_ she drawls bitingly. It isn’t fair, and she knows it isn’t fair—she’s the one who asked him here, to do this very thing—but she can’t seem to stop trying to hurt him, to take out some of her pain and throw it at him. (There is hurt on his face, but it’s not hers; he came with it.)

“Okay,” he takes it stoically, everything she pelts him with: apparently unaffected except for a slight twitch in a clenched jaw. “Do you want to do it here?” He gestures to the couch.

“Fine.” It won’t be as comfortable as the bed, but there are some reasons why she shouldn’t be in her bed with him. She yanks her tee-shirt off, revealing an old grey sports bra, and pulls down her capris and underwear in one go. She hasn’t shaved since they made this plan on Wednesday. She wishes she could have gone even further back in time and stopped shaving earlier so she would be hairier. So he doesn’t enjoy any part of seeing her and touching her like this.

She sits down on the couch. So does he, stiffly and without looking directly at her. His jaw doesn’t appear to have unclenched.

“You’ve watched porn, right?” he asks, looking at a spot somewhere over her shoulder. “Or sex scenes from TV or movies?”

She rolls her eyes. “Obviously. And if you want me to base my fake orgasms on porn actors’ fake orgasms, I’m already skeptical of your teaching abilities.”

“You realize that not all orgasms in porn are fake, right?”

“There may be some real ones, but they’re obviously exaggerated.”

“Rey,” he starts to say, still pointedly not looking at her. “I ... what do you think an orgasm is supposed to be like?”

She sets her chin. “If you came here to rub my nose in the fact that I can’t come, you have a pretty fucked up concept of making it up to me.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do,” he protests quickly. “I just want to know ... what we’re working with.”

Rey crosses her arms and stares ahead stubbornly. She won’t give him the satisfaction of being able to correct her.

“I can leave, if you want,” he says quietly.

She’s not going to look at him. It’s not so he won’t see the tears that are all too quick to spring to her eyes this past week. It’s so she won’t see the look on his face, because she knows exactly what it will be.

Her puppy, that she can’t stop kicking.

“Don’t you dare leave.”

He takes a breath, then says in a slightly strangled tone that he probably intends as business-like, “The main things I think you should work on are arching your back, your breathing or vocalization, tensing or twitching your legs or feet, and clenching your vaginal walls. No two women orgasm exactly the same, but those are some of the most common elements. Combined and done well, they should fool anyone.”

“Okay,” she says, relaxing slightly. Four things. They can do this. She can do this.

As it turns out, she _can’t_ do this.

“Think about having a puppet string attached to your chest that yanks you up.” “Rey ... you don’t have to _yell_. It should be like the sound is coming out of you without you trying.” “I said _twitch,_ not flail. You’re not trying to kick a soccer ball.”

Twenty minutes in, she’s itchy and disgruntled and wouldn’t mind kicking some balls right about now, and they haven’t even gotten to the fourth element. Her hair is coming out of its ponytail and is plastered to her forehead with sweat. “I’m not a puppet! And I’m not an actor! You giving me dialect tips on my moan is not helping! If you have a plan to rig up some sort of pulley system so you can lift up my chest in the exact way you want while I’m fucking some guy, I’m all ears, but this isn’t helping!”

She looks at him, accidentally. He’s looking at her. At some point during the back arching, she scooted down the couch toward him, and at some point during the leg twitching, one of her feet ended up wedged partway behind his back and the other one resting on his thigh. He’s _looking_ at her, and doesn’t look away.

She’s suddenly keenly aware of the fact that her cunt is open to his gaze, if his eyes were to flicker down. Or even do more than flicker. They could linger, or caress. So could his hand.

There’s a storm in his eyes. She thinks it’s probably been brewing for a while, but he kept it hidden. Anger. Frustration. Arousal. But above all, restraint. She could slide her bare foot up his clothed thigh. The ball of her foot could explore the bulge that waits there. She wonders how long his restraint would last.

“Rey,” he rumbles deep in his chest. Suddenly his hands are wrapped around her ankles. He squeezes, not hard enough to hurt, but firmly enough to make her remember how his arm felt as it locked her body against his. How she melted at his _good girl_. It’s a warning. A promise. A reminder. _Tell me what you want._

She knows what she wants right now, and her body does too. But he won’t. He won’t unless she asks. And that’s not what he’s here for.

Without releasing her ankles, he says lowly, “You can probably get away without the other three elements, but not the fourth. That’s how I knew you didn’t come on my cock. That’s how I knew you didn’t come on my finger. When you come, your cunt will clench. _Hard.”_ He’s not a puppy now. He’s a lion, and the bolt that attaches his chain to the wall is coming loose.

His hands slide up her legs, and he doesn’t mind the prickle of new-grown hair: he _glories_ in it. His palms scrape against it, and she’s sandpaper but he’s made of sterner stuff, and he could do this a million times and she would waste away before she wears him down. Before the storm abates.

His finger reaches its destination and finds wetness waiting there. She doesn’t know why _he_ gasps; she’s the one who has the right to it. She’s the one whose cunt is being filled with a slow, thick, inexorable finger, and she’s the one who’s given a command of one word:

_“Clench.”_

She does. She would’ve had to even if he hadn’t told her to.

“Harder.”

She tries.

“Now pulse the clenching.”

 _This_ is harder; she wasn’t prepared to have to do Kegels tonight. She tries to obey, but she can’t sustain more than a few. She can see it in his face, lurking just below the hunger. “I’m not doing it right.”

“You’re doing fine,” he rumbles, without moving his finger.

Something inside snaps. “Get out of me,” she bites out in a white hot fury. He does, carefully. “You’re lying to me. You’re fucking lying to me again.”

“It’s not an easy thing to fake.”

“Don’t try to make me feel better.” She swings her feet around and scrambles to her knees. “You—you asshole.” She repeats it, as if saying it would make it true. “You asshole.” The ever-waiting tears are prickling. “Don’t be nice to me. Don’t try to make me come. Don’t think I deserve things. I _need_ you to be an asshole, okay?” She shuffles forward on her knees and grabs his shirt in both hands. “Okay, Ben?” she pleads.

He doesn’t answer, but it might be because she’s already kissing him. She takes fistfuls of his shirt and his hair and all of him that her hands can find. His hand grasps one of her knees and lifts it over his lap so she can straddle him, and she’s still kneeling up so her face is higher than his, and that’s how she needs it right now, even though she’s at the mercy of his tongue and his hands and the row of abs that press against her clit as he kneads her ass. She’s leaving a wet spot on his shirt, she’s almost sure, and she needs that too. She needs to leave her wetness all over him. She needs to sully him. She needs to take something away from him, as terrible as what he took away from her. But she can’t, so she’ll just take his come instead.

She yanks herself out of his grip to lower herself to his lap and open his pants. His cock is straining, reaching impatiently for her, the way she likes to think it may have been yearning for her since it last saw her. She starts to climb off him, but he grips her thighs with alarm in his eyes. “Condom,” she breathes by way of explanation, and his hand fumbles in his pocket and pulls one out. He rolls it on with a practiced wrist. She doesn’t know if he meant it for her, even after she said they wouldn’t have sex, or if he had another woman in mind when he slipped it in. Either way, he deserves to be punished.

She grabs his wrists and pins them to the couch cushions by his shoulders. His eyes crackle with dark energy. She considers him. She considers what she could do to him. She could make him come apart, probably. She could tease him and unravel him and bring him to the edge again and again until her cunt was his universe. She could make him oh so very vulnerable. He would let her. It might be almost as good as an orgasm.

His hips unconsciously jerk upwards, seeking her friction, and his mouth parts in desperation, but still—still he has the absolute, unmitigated audacity to say:

“Good girl.”

She freezes. She is a good girl. She’s been a good girl for _so_ long, giving men orgasms and never expecting them in return. Never even knowing to ask. 

He can see something of the tempest on her face, because he says, “I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong? I’m sorry.”

“It’s not about you.” The tears spill over, this time, without warning. “Everything is not _fucking_ about you, Ben.” She hasn’t let go of his wrists, so she can’t wipe away the tears, but at least he can’t use his hands to do something horrible like cradle her against him. “Do you know how many guys I’ve slept with? How many one-night stands I’ve had, where the guy has watched my obviously fake orgasm and never done anything about it? Never cared if I have a real one? No one has ever cared, Ben,” she says through tears, and she knows it’s not true and so does he, because her phone is full of heart-aching texts and his eyes are telling her she’s unimaginably precious and he’s _here._

But there are other men, memories piled on memories of giving and giving never getting in return. “No one told me what it was supposed to be like.” She’s nearly sobbing now, but she still has his wrists pinned because she needs to say this and he needs to sit there and hear it, all of it. “No teacher and no movie and no man who’s been _inside_ me ever said, ‘You’re entitled to an orgasm, and this is what it’s like.’”

She’s probably unintelligible through the tears, but she thinks he’s looking at her like he understands, so she releases his wrists and lets him gather her into his arms. Lets him press her against his heart as she sobs.

He doesn’t try to apologize. Doesn’t try to say it’ll be okay, because it’s _not_ okay, and she thinks maybe he gets that a little.

He does, it turns out. Because when she stops crying he kisses her hair and he says exactly what she needs to hear:

“How about you go to bed now. And how about tomorrow, we make sure you have an orgasm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve upped the chapter count because I’m physically incapable of correctly planning chapter counts. I wrote some more of this fic this evening and I’m fairly certain that it’s the most angsty modern AU I’ve ever written.


	3. Bright

She’s tired. Too tired to protest when he kneels at her feet and slides her underwear back up her legs. He picks up her shirt, too, and she puts her arms up and lets him pull it over her head. She wouldn’t otherwise, of course. It’s just that she’s very sad and very tired. So she lets him take her hand and lead her to her bed, then leave only to come back a minute later with a glass of water. He sits on the edge of the bed while she drinks it. She finishes it and puts it on the bedside table. She lies down and tugs him with her before she can let herself think.

Even if she _had_ thought, she might’ve done it anyway. That’s the crazy part.

She grunts in discomfort as the buttons down his chest press against her back, so he takes his shirt off for her. His pants, too. She doesn’t know when he took off the applied but unused condom, once it failed in its reason for existence.

When the mattress dips behind her again, there are no buttons to vex her. Just his skin and her shirt. His arm, too, wrapped around her middle. She entwines her fingers with his and helps him hold her. Her eyes are closed, so it doesn’t count.

She wonders how many other women he’s held this way. She wonders why she cares. He brushes his lips against her hair so gently that she doesn’t know if she was meant to feel it. She wants to kiss his palm. Then she realizes there’s nothing stopping her, so she does. She raises his hand with hers and places a single kiss on his lifeline. It’s clean. Simple. Quiet. Just two people and a bed and her lips and his hand.

It feels too easy. She mistrusts it already.

Her brain is insistently loud, so to drown it out she demands of him, “Tell me things.”

He complies, in a murmur that’s almost too soft to hear. She catches snippets here and there. They’re just words. Nothing as important as the way her body perfectly slots into the cradle of his, or the way that she wants to nestle there as long as he’ll have her. Maybe longer, even. He owes her.

She doesn’t remember falling asleep.

* * *

When she wakes up it’s still dark. He pulled away from her at some point, or maybe she pulled away from him. Maybe both. But they’re not touching any more, which is fine. It’s better that way, because she can go out to the kitchen and check the glowing green time on the microwave without disturbing him. It’s 4:07—smack dab in the no-man’s land of night.

She’s awake but doesn’t feel it: there’s a slight sheen of unreality. Like this could be a dream, but probably not. She pours herself a bowl of cereal. The light from the fridge seems real, and so does the cold. She switches on the light over the kitchen table. It’s not quite a single bulb hanging from a cord, but not much more than that. It’s all she needs. There are shadows in her cereal. She eats them too.

The world is silent except for her munches. It lets her hear her thoughts too clearly: the ones that say _don’t deserve_ and _disappointment_ and _broken_. The crunch isn’t loud enough to drown them out. She should’ve used less milk.

There’s another sound, though, and it makes her look up. It’s a man standing in a doorway. He looks like a stranger in this nowhere of a night time. He hesitates, waiting for permission. Her puppy is well trained.

“Help yourself,” she says through a mouthful. He does, pouring himself a bowl and coming to sit at the table exactly opposite her. He doesn’t say anything, just eats. But it helps. Her brain is less loud with his munches too.

She finishes before he does and sits there watching him. He meets her eyes occasionally, but she doesn’t look away. It’s after four, not yet five. The world isn’t awake to witness.

He finishes too, and replaces the spoon in the empty bowl with a _clink_. Now the silence is back. She wants to fill it. She wants him to fill it, with words that will magically make everything okay. She wants him to fill her.

There’s nothing between them but a table, and even that’s too much. So she gets up and walks around to him and comes to stand behind his chair. When she can’t stand the stillness for one second longer, she reaches over his shoulder suddenly and scrapes her nails across his chest. She doesn’t know why, and neither does he, probably. The microwave says 4:23. There doesn’t have to be a why.

His breathing is coming faster. If she could see his lap she wonders if she’d find a tent there, that she built. But it’s in the shadow. She’s in his shadow now, and she doesn’t like it. So she runs her hand up to his throat and spans the front, with just the hint of a squeeze. His breaths turn ragged. She knows how they feel.

She grasps a chunk of his hair with the other hand and tips his head back, back, back, until he’s looking straight up at the ceiling, the top of his head resting against her breastbone. She looms over him. She takes her hand from his throat and shades his face from the light. There’s a shadow on him now, that she made. It feels good. So she kisses him, bends down and slots his upside-down lips to hers. That feels good too. She likes 4:23.

She stands back up and runs her hands down his biceps, feeling the way he shivers. She isn’t holding his head back anymore, but he stays obediently where she left him. _Puppy._

She drags her fingertips back up to his shoulders and wonders what she wants. She thinks he would probably give it to her. Maybe. She could sit on the table and explore his lap with her toes to see if any hardness was waiting there. She could pull her underwear down and ride his shoulder until his arm was dripping with her. They could make all sorts of shadows.

While she’s thinking about it, he breaks the silence, in disregard of the night. “What do you want?”

Shadows pool in his eyes as he watches her. She wonders if she looks different upside-down. It might be easier to be someone different. Just for a little while.

She walks around beside his chair so he doesn’t have to strain to watch her, and she leans over and rests her fingertips on his jaw and kisses the bridge of his nose. She’s tired again. Maybe she’ll always be tired. So she yawns, takes his hand, and leads him back to bed, and she feels his erection as he takes his place at her sleepy back.

This time she does remember falling asleep, because she thinks how odd it is, that she should be able to fall asleep while smiling.

* * *

She wakes again to sunlight and an arm still around her waist. “Ben?” she says immediately.

“Yeah?” the answer comes, at her back. She scootches around to face him without displacing his arm.

“Hi.” It feels important to say, and to say face to face.

It _was_ important, because of this exact smile of his. “Hi.”

She’d like to kiss him, but they’re not in the four o’clocks anymore, so maybe she’s not allowed. She doesn’t remember the last time she was in bed with someone in the daytime, in broad daylight. There’s something especially broad about this particular daylight.

So she sits up, sliding his arm off her, and asks matter-of-factly: “How do you want to do this?” He sits up too, and seeing that expanse of chest does things to her. Things that will probably be helpful, actually, if her goal is eventually to come.

“Do you have anything that you want to try?” he asks, in a voice still slightly rusty from sleep. “Any particular likes or dislikes?”

“I don’t know.” She looks at her hands where they rest in her lap, not at him.

“Have you tried toys before?”

“I borrowed a friend’s vibrator once,” she confesses to the sheets.

“And?”

“I didn’t like it. It kind of hurt.”

“Okay,” he says. “That’s okay. We’ll try other things.”

“Okay,” she says, and a knot loosens slightly, somewhere inside her. She looks at him and smiles. When he gives her a smile in return, it means more, somehow, than a smile of nighttime wanting. It might just be the sun.

They have breakfast first. He insists on making an omelet and won’t let her help, so she takes a shower instead. What a luxury, when she emerges with wet hair and a soft, clean nightshirt: there’s food on her plates that she didn’t put there.

They sit on the couch to eat, and she tucks her bare feet under his thigh, and the omelet is good, but the way he takes a break in between bites to stroke her calf is even better. Their breakfast somehow turns into a debate on the relative merits of the various Netflix cooking documentaries, so of course Rey has to put on Chef’s Table to convince him of its vast superiority. They watch three episodes, or maybe four—they let it play, and while it does Ben’s hand finds more of her skin, but without heat. Just an absent-minded caress of a knee, or a wrist. As the sun creeps across the floor toward an afternoon, he shifts around and so does she, so their limbs end up where you wouldn’t expect to find a limb: behind a back, or slung over a pelvis. A knee propping up a chin. A foot on a shoulder. Rey’s nightshirt twists and rides up. She knows he knows she isn’t wearing underwear, but he hasn’t done anything about it. Yet.

Part of her is disappointed, but another part wants Netflix and hairy legs and his lazy hands. So she isn’t sad when he doesn’t kiss her.

But she isn’t sad when he does, either. He just looks over and leans over and does it without preamble. She’s sitting next to him, shoulder to shoulder, and he doesn’t even turn his body, just his head. But her body wakes up, and she scrambles onto his lap, straddling him. She takes all his kisses, drinks them straight from his mouth, and he yields them to her without complaint. So she slips off her nightshirt and she returns to kissing him and leads his hand to her cunt, where three Chef’s Tables worth of wetness waits. Maybe four.

His finger gathers it up and smears it upwards, so when he circles her swollen clit there’s no resistance, just a generous glide. It’s decadent, really, and she takes a couple handfuls of his hair, and that’s even more of a luxury. He watches her and kisses her neck and diddles her and _watches_ her, and she revels in it all. “Ben,” she moans, “I want ... I need ...”

 _“Say it,_ Rey,” he urges.

“I want you inside of me.”

“Do you think that’s going to help you come?”

“No.”

“Then no.” His finger stills.

She’s aghast. “Ben, _please.”_

“We agreed. I don’t come until you do.”

“But I just need this right now, okay?” There are words, probably, that could tell him why, but she doesn’t have them.

“Why?” he asks, giving her nothing. Stone-faced.

“I can’t explain it,” she says, leaning to try to kiss him. He turns away.

“Rey, last night you were sobbing in my arms about how many men you’ve given unreturned orgasms to. I’m not going to be the latest one. Again.”

“Just let me, okay?” she whines, trailing fingernails along his shoulder.

“That’s not a reason. _Just let me_ is not a reason.” His Adam’s apple bobs, but his eyes stay stony.

“I want to make you come.”

“That’s not a reason either.” She can feel his cock, hard and heavy against her thigh.

“I need to be in control.”

He pulls away from her, so her lips can’t reach him. So he can see her face. “Rey, do you not feel in control right now?”

She sits on his lap and lies. “I do.”

“Then why do you want to make me come?” She nibbles on her lip. He fixes her with a stare that compels the truth.

“I need _you_ to lose control.”

He watches her for a long minute, long enough that she’s about to _have_ to look away, and then he says, “No. Not like this.”

She freezes. She wants to climb off him but her muscles won’t let her. They lock her there, on top of this man who won’t give her what she asked for, even after he said he would and she found the words, just for him. “Why not?”

“You’ll be angry with me after. That I let you make me come before you did.”

Even in the haze of want, she can imagine it clearly. “So what?”

“I don’t want you to be angry with me.”

“I don’t care,” she bites back.

“What?”

“I don’t care. Let me be angry if I need to. You can take it.”

“Rey,” he says, and why does he sound so broken, “I can’t—I’ve tried, and I _can’t._ ”

“Please, Ben,” she says, and her hands find his face and gently smooth away the coming hurts. “Just pretend that it’s okay. For a little bit. For me?” _There’s_ the puppy dog. She presses on. “Just come inside me, just for me. Pretend that you need me. Please?”

His eyes are dark with something she can’t name. It’s not a storm this time. It’s hidden, guarded. It’s the shadows in her cereal bowl.

After a year, he nods. She goes to get a condom—hurrying, before he can change his mind—and she tears it open before she gets there and rolls it on quickly, with hands that tremble at the thought of him. He just sits there and lets her, and when she finally, _finally_ sinks down onto him, he can’t stifle his strangled moan.

She clenches around him like he tried to teach her, and she might not be good at it but his cock doesn’t care, because his eyes roll back in his head and he has to rest his head against the back of the couch as she rides him, clenching with her soul on every upstroke. It doesn’t take long for him to come, like this, and he tips up his head with effort so she can see it: see the moment he comes undone.

In the silence afterward his breathing stills and his hand finds her cheek in a silent apology, and she waits for the anger to arrive. So does he. She can see it on his face, see him bracing to take it: the knowledge that once again, she’s given away an orgasm.

But not for nothing, this time. And that knowledge is why the anger doesn’t come. Because her orgasm is waiting maybe just minutes away—maybe it’s right there in his hand or his mouth—and so she smiles languidly and kisses him and he laughs, an actual, honest-to-God _laugh,_ that bubbles up out of some deep well of relief inside that chest.

She’s already straddling him, so it’s easy to lock her ankles around his back when he picks her up, cradling her in his arms as he carries her to the bedroom.

He sets her down carefully on the bed, on the sheets where she’s going to have her first orgasm, maybe. Probably. _Definitely,_ if he has anything to say about it.

His eyes are dark as he sinks to his knees at the foot of the bed, inches from where her body waits for what he’s promised.

He rests one finger on her knee. He drags it upward. Her lips part without her permission at what comes next, in a gravelly rumble that goes straight to her cunt.

“Your turn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is coming today! 💛


	4. Left

“Wait.” She says it automatically, stilling his hand with hers. She doesn’t know why, really. This is what he’s here for. But him on his knees before her, with her whole self spread open to him ... it’s too much, maybe. Too _something_. “I just think—we should talk, right? Make a game plan?” She’s cringing at herself before she even finishes saying the words.

But maybe it’s okay after all, because he’s nodding. “Of course. You’re right. Would you like to tell me what you’re comfortable trying? Or not comfortable?” He doesn’t get up from where he kneels at the foot of the bed, just looks up at her.

She looks down at him and wants to kiss him, right on the temple where a bead of sweat still clings from when he came inside her. But instead she shifts her thighs closed and says, “Why don’t you give me options. And I’ll tell you yes or no.”

“I could eat you out,” he says, _so_ casually, like it’s nothing. Like it’s something he does all the time, without even thinking about it.

“No.”

“Okay,” he hesitates. “Do you ... do you want to tell me why?”

 _Because no one’s ever done that before. Because I don’t want you to go to the trouble and be disappointed. Because maybe I want your mouth on my mouth the first time I come._ “No.”

“We could try toys.”

“I don’t have any.”

“We can get dressed and go to the store.”

She flushes. “No.”

“It doesn’t have to be a vibrator. There are other options.”

“I know. I don’t want to.” She crosses her arms again, and she sees it, how he crumbles slightly.

“Rey—” He seems to be choosing his words carefully. “I’m just confused. You seem to be so open about sex with someone else, but when it comes to just you, you’re so closed off.”

She tightens her arms across her chest, hugging herself. “That’s not a helpful thing to say.”

“I’m sorry.” He looks up warily as her eyes flash a warning. “What can I do to make you feel good?”

“I don’t know,” she spits, exasperated. “How many times do I need to tell you? I don’t know.” They’re not the Ben and Rey on the couch anymore, warm with smiles and touch and laughter. It’s nine days ago, suddenly, and he’s sitting on her bed saying _you’ve never had an orgasm._ She’s that Rey, and what happened since was a lie. She’s not surprised, of course. She might be disappointed if she’d ever let herself hope. But she didn’t, so she’s fine.

“Rey,” he’s saying, and he’s coming up to kneel on the bed now, so he can touch her cheek too tenderly and try to get her to look in his eyes. She doesn’t, she just stares straight ahead and digs her fingers harder into her ribs. “Don’t shut me out. You don’t always need to shut people out.” She believes him for a whole three seconds before she remembers that he’s wrong. And in those three seconds, she makes the mistake of looking up at him where he kneels beside her, and he takes her face in both hands and kisses her temple, right where his drop of sweat was waiting for her. She tenses.

“Don’t,” she whispers, then repeats herself louder. “Don’t be sweet. I already told you. Don’t be sweet to me.”

He pulls his hands away and deflates physically beside her. She doesn’t look, because she knows what she’ll see. She knows it so well that she can close her eyes and see his hurt, confused, forlorn face printed on the back of her eyelids. It’ll go away soon enough, once he does.

“Did it feel good, what you did last time?” he asks quietly. “On the bed?”

She sets her mouth in a firm line. “Yes,” she clips out, “but I didn’t come, remember?”

“But it’s a place to start,” he says patiently. “If you want.”

“Fine,” she says, still not looking at him. _Please don’t leave._

She waits until he’s maneuvered into place against the headboard before she gets up from the bed to close the mirrored closet door and draw the white linen curtains. They don’t do much against the sun, but it’s something, at least. She walks toward the bed, looking at his chest so she doesn’t look at his face. She has one knee on the bed, getting ready to settle herself in between his spread legs, when he catches her by the wrist. “Hey.”

She looks at him.

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. We can watch the rest of Chef’s Table. I can cook you more things. We can—I don’t know—take a nap. Go for a walk. Play Connect Four.”

She might accidentally smile if he keeps talking, so she cuts in. “I don’t have a Connect Four board.”

He kisses her wrist, right on the soft skin of the inside. He’s already breaking the rule about being sweet, and why can she not bring herself to be mad? “We can do anything you want.”

There’s nothing she wants to do more than be in his arms, so she smiles quickly and climbs in between his legs and settles herself there, wrapping one of his arms around her before he can change his mind. “Rey,” he whispers reverently, and brushes her hair back from her neck with his free hand and kisses her earlobe.

She shivers and her legs fall open, and she doesn’t plant her feet outside his legs like she did before, she just lets her legs rest against the length of his because if he’s lending her his body for this she wants to use as much as he’ll give her. She’s not nearly as spread open, this way, but there’s still room for two of her fingers to find her dripping opening and dip inside. She intended just to wet her fingers to move up to her clit, but it feels good, with her fingertips inside like this, so she twists them experimentally and feels the stretch of her entrance. It feels good. She feels good. Her body is a good body. Her cunt is a good cunt. His arm lies heavy across her. She tips her head back and turns it slightly so he can kiss her temple again, and her closed eye. His lips were waiting.

“Ben,” she says, just to say it. Her fingers glide up to her clit and start their slippery circles.

“What do you need?” he asks, raspy in her ear. “What can I do?”

“Talk,” she murmurs. “Talk to me.”

He doesn’t wait to be told twice. “You’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect, Rey, touching yourself in between my legs. You like that, don’t you?” She doesn’t know what part he’s asking about, but she likes all of it. “You like touching yourself in my arms. With those little fingers of yours in your wet cunt.” His hand finds her puckered nipple, and she has to swallow a moan. “You’re so small, Rey, so small that when I first saw you I wondered if you could ever take me. But you did, didn’t you?” She nods. It’s not an answer to his question. It’s a _keep going_. Her fingers move faster. “Your little pussy sucked me right in. Like it was waiting for me. Was it waiting for me, Rey?” She doesn’t answer, partly because that’s not something she should answer, but mostly because she doesn’t want it to stop: any of it. The sensation of the engorged bud she’s rolling under her fingers, or the words that drip and sizzle on her bare skin. “You’re so hot, so fucking goddamn hot. With your legs and your waist and your neck and your smile and your pussy, all wet just for me. It’s heaven inside you, Rey, did you know? You’re paradise.” The warm glow is building. She’s getting close. She wants his lips, but she wants his words more. His hand kneads her breast. “You’re unimaginable. I could sleep for a hundred years and never dream you up. You’re everything.” The words filter through the haze of creeping pleasure. “I wish I could go all over the world and find every good thing and bring them all back for you, all the good things just for you. I care about you so much, Rey. I’ve never cared about someone as much as I care about you.”

But now these words are _wrong,_ they’re all wrong; they’re not hers to deserve. Why would he say that? Why couldn’t he just keep talking about her body, about her cunt, she liked that part, that part could be true. So before he can go on she stills in his arms and says, “Stop.”

“Did you get there already?” he asks, surprised.

“No,” she says, pulling her hand out from between her legs and wiping her fingers on the sheet. “Don’t. Don’t say things like that. Just to make me feel good. Just to help me come. You shouldn’t ... you shouldn’t _say_ that.”

“Why not?”

She’s still sitting between his legs, so she can’t see his face. He can’t see hers, either, but she’s sure he can feel how her body is trembling, actually shaking from the anger. She thought she already knew all there was to know about anger.

She didn’t.

She curls in on herself, curving her back away from his chest. She folds her knees in to her chin and wraps herself up into an impervious ball. He isn’t touching her anymore, but she can feel his eyes on her bare back. “You didn’t need to say that shit. You didn’t _need_ to lie.”

“Which part of what I said do you think I was lying about?” His voice is deep and strained with something she doesn’t recognize.

The shaking hasn’t stopped. Nor has the anger. “I’m not going to _guess,_ Ben. I’m not going to fucking _guess_ how much of that you meant.”

“No,” he says urgently, and the mattress shifts as he sits up behind her, still not touching her. “That’s not what I meant. Why do you think I was lying?”

“I don’t know why you did,” she says. “You didn’t have to. You didn’t _need_ to say all those things.”

From behind her comes a strangled exclamation of frustration. _“That’s_ not what I meant either. Fuck. Rey.” He extracts his legs from either side of her and shifts around to sit beside her on the bed, where he could see her profile if she hadn’t buried her face between her knees. “I’m going to be as clear as I can. I _need_ you to understand this. _None of what I said was a lie._ I meant _every single thing.”_

That’s too cruel. She wraps her arms tighter around her shins. Maybe if she doesn’t say anything he’ll go away and stop these fresh cuts.

“I didn’t expect you. I didn’t expect to go on a first date last week that made me think it could be my last first date ever. I didn’t think I could _want_ that. But then there was you. And yes, I want every good thing for you and yes, I care about you. Because you’re incredible, Rey. You’re brilliant and hilarious and gorgeous but even if you weren’t any of those things I would still care about you so fucking much because you’re _you._ I don’t know how to say it. I wish I had the words, because …”

Finally she _has_ to cut him off. She can’t keep hearing these things. She has to cut him off because it’s not _right,_ to mock a person like he’s mocking her. “Stop.” She raises her head and turns to look at him. He can see how red her face is, but that can’t be helped right now, nor can the outrage in her voice. “What is this to you? The act you put on for one-night stands was getting stale, so you decided to try something new? And then you hit the jackpot, didn’t you, with someone who can’t fucking orgasm. If you could be the first one to get me to come, _and_ persuade me you had _feelings_ for me? What a coup!” Her throat is hoarse with fury, but he sits there and he takes it. “Do you get off on this? I’m actually asking, do you fucking get off on this? You were lying, weren’t you, when you said that making them come is your favorite part. It’s _this._ You do this to women and you pretend that you care and then you _leave._ ” The words pour out hoarsely. She doesn’t even know where they’re coming from. “You always _leave._ Every single time. They _always leave._ ”

She doesn’t remember the exact moment when the tightness in her throat stops her voice, or when he enfolds her in his arms. The next thing she knows, her arms are around his neck and she’s hanging on with a need that she didn’t even know was inside her.

“I know,” he says softly in her ear. “It’s a lot. I know, Rey.”

There’s something in his voice that makes her think that he really does know, and that’s why she clings tighter so he’ll stay with her a little longer. He’ll go eventually, of course, but maybe he’ll stay a while. Maybe she wants him to stay for longer than a while. At this realization, the anger turns to fear, and she lets go of him as if his skin burned her. His arms are slower to give her up.

“You should go,” she says, looking in his eyes so he knows it’s true. “You need to go. It’s okay.” Her voice is calm, even. “I forgive you for last week. You don’t need to be sorry anymore, really. We’re even. You can go now. It’s okay, Ben.”

She has to look away, now, because he looks remarkably like she’s stabbed him. She doesn’t need to watch that. She doesn’t need to let herself imagine that the world is different than it is. Everyone leaves. Better now than later, when her heart might do something ridiculous, like break.

It occurs to her that she’s still naked, and she tugs the bunched-up sheet out from where it’s tucked in to wrap it around herself. He’s still just sitting there, watching silently.

“Well?” she says, once the sheet is secured. “What are you waiting for?” There’s a hint of an edge to her voice. “I said you can go. You can leave. It’s fine.”

“No,” he says, in a voice scarcely louder than a whisper. “You asked me not to leave you, and I’m not going to.”

“That was before,” she says mostly evenly, not meeting his eyes. “It’s different now. I want you to leave.”

“No, you don’t,” he says quietly. “You don’t want me to leave, and I don’t want to leave. I’m not leaving you, Rey. That’s just not going to happen. I’m exactly where I want to be.”

“For now,” she answers, looking down at the edge of the sheet as she fiddles with it. “But then you’ll leave. Eventually. It’s okay. I get it. You should just go now, instead of later.”

“What did you mean by that? When you said ‘I get it?’”

“Everybody leaves me.” She finds a loose thread along the hem and tugs at it. “My parents, everyone. I get it. I’m not easy to love.” She hears his sharp intake of breath, but she doesn’t look up. She yanks at the thread a little harder.

“That’s not true,” he says in a strained voice. “I— I can see it. How easy it would be, to love you.”

“Just go.” She wills herself to look up at him. “Okay, Ben? Just go now. It’s fine, I promise.”

He sets his chin determinedly, and Rey sees for an instant what his mother must’ve seen when she looked at her stubborn big-eared little boy. “No.”

“I’m serious, Ben. Leave.”

“You don’t want that.”

That white-hot anger creeps back in. “Don’t tell me what I want.”

“Rey, _please._ ” His eyes entreat. She doesn’t care.

“I barely know you. You’re a stranger, in my apartment, sitting on my bed, and I’m asking you to leave. And you have the absolute gall to tell me _no?_ ”

“I can wait in the hallway.”

“I’ll call the property manager and have him throw you out.”

“I’ll wait outside.”

“I’m giving you an out!” she snaps. “Why won’t you just take it? Go! Okay? Just go!” _Please leave. Please stay._ _Please._

“Okay, Rey,” he sighs. His eyes trace her face like he’s looking his last. “You win. I won’t stay in your apartment if you want me to go. But I know something about people leaving. And I know it feels easier to try to push me away, but I need to make sure you realize something. I know that that’s what you’re doing. And it won’t ever make me care about you any less.”

The bed shifts as he gets up wearily. Rey stays there, in her cocoon of sheets, until he goes. She hears the rustle of clothes being put on, and the front door opens and shuts. She gets up slowly to go over to the window. A minute later, he emerges from the building and goes over to his car. She tries to fix in her memory the way he looks walking away. To add it to her collection.

He gets in the car. It’s hard to tell with the glare of sunlight on the windshield, but she thinks he might look up at her window. She digs her fingernails into her palm hard enough to hurt and waits for him to leave.

He turns the key in the ignition. He rolls the windows down. He ... turns off the engine. He rummages in the glove compartment for something. A book?

He rests his elbow casually on the open window. He opens the book.

He settles in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely intended for this chapter to go a very different way, but I’m just following Rey’s lead at this point. 🥺
> 
> I want to very sincerely thank you for coming along on this journey with me. I appreciate it more than I can say. ❤️️


	5. Hers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the addition of a few tags!
> 
> If Rey’s situation hits close to home for you, I would suggest that you consider reading the end note before reading this chapter. ❤️

* * *

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* * *

* * *

She still remembers the day her parents left her, down the block from the firehouse. Her father told her to get out of the car, so she did. The car was blue. The paint was rusty. They were high; she was five.

She remembers standing on the curb for long enough that her legs got tired and the sun burned her arms. She remembers the firemen who saw her and came to ask where her parents were. She remembers the first foster placement, and the one after that. The rest are a blur of aching waiting.

She started first grade that fall. Miss Bell, her teacher, taught her all sorts of things: some school things and some life things. Like how when you’re meeting a dog who doesn’t trust you yet, you shouldn’t reach out to pet it right away. You should hold out your hand and let the dog come to you, if it wants.

(Rey didn’t realize until the last week of the school year that Miss Bell wouldn’t be her teacher again the next year—that she would have a different teacher every year of school. It was like watching that blue car drive away all over again.)

As she stands in her kitchen and looks down at the night, dark except for a single dome light in a single car, she realizes: all along she’s thought of _him_ as the puppy dog.

But he’s the one with his hand outstretched.

* * *

The microwave tells her it’s 1:48. She hasn’t turned on the light, because it would be a lie. That would be like saying that there’s someone living in her apartment. No one lives here. Not even her.

Her main problem is that there isn’t room inside her for all the feelings. Not all at the same time. Maybe if she could store some of them away and take them out later to deal with, she wouldn’t have to contend with them all at once. But the storage space is full, with other feelings that she put away and told herself she would deal with later. There isn’t room. There isn’t room inside her. There’s hurt piled on old hurt, and it takes up all the space.

She’s known it for hours: that she doesn’t want him to leave. She’s known it since the omelet, really, or maybe even before that. It makes her chest ache. She doesn’t like it.

It’s not even two a.m. It’s not yet that lost hour between late and early when she could easily go downstairs and make him roll down the window and lean in to kiss him before it’s even all the way down. Because if she did that now, it would count. She could lay him down on her bed and pull off all his clothes and kiss his chest and taste sweat. She could kiss his mouth and taste Doritos. She could confess that she wants to be cared about, that she’s _glad_ he cares about her. She could do all that now, and it would count. Maybe she should wait until four o’clock.

She wonders if he’ll wait that long. She watches him doze at a distance. She watches his face: the half that the dome light can reach. The car manual is still propped up against the steering wheel, with one of his hands wedged inside. Her chest aches. _She_ aches. She aches for him.

At any moment he might jolt awake, startled by discomfort, and see her apartment dark and drive away. He might hesitate a minute before he did. She could survive that, she thinks.

She could survive it if his car were any other color.

But his car is blue.

So she slips into a pair of flip flops, locks her apartment door behind her, and walks down the hall to the stairs. She’s hardly presentable. She’s still wearing that nightshirt, and no underwear. She doesn’t care. It’s too important that she see him, that she touch him, _now._ She’s done waiting. She wants it to count.

She doesn’t plan what she’s going to say or do; she’s just intent on getting to him before he leaves. She takes the last couple flights of stairs at an awkward flip-flop run, suddenly spurred by fright at the thought that he might be gone before she gets there. But when she bursts out the door he’s still waiting for her, even in sleep. As she gets closer she can see how his head has flopped to the side in a way that will leave him with a wicked ache when he wakes up. It’s better that he be in her bed. If his neck hurts she wants it to be from her riding his face.

_Where did that want come from?_

She raps on the window without care for waking him gently. He jerks awake and the car manual slips from his lap. Only then does she see his hand and the careful way it clutches his phone. She plucks urgently at the door handle, but it’s locked. It seems to take him a second to remember where he is. But when he does and he sees her, he fumbles for the unlock button, apparently forgetting that _he_ can open the door. She can forgive him that lapse. It’s almost two a.m. And besides, he cares about her. Doesn’t she have the texts to prove it?

She finally pulls the door open, and he looks up at her like he’s not sure if she’s a dream. She doesn’t speak yet; she can’t. She tugs at his arm impatiently until he gets out of the car and stands over her. She takes his hand in hers and guides it behind her back, showing him to hold her. First one arm, then the other. She steps forward so he has to step back, until his back is up against the frame of the open car door. She looks up at him. He looks down in tousled awe.

She smiles. She threads her arms around his neck. And she kisses him.

Just gently. Because he’s waited this long, he’ll wait longer. She raises herself up on her tiptoes and presses the whole length of her front against him but her mouth stays soft and slow.

It’s a few seconds before Ben seems to realize that this is real life, because he pulls back, dazed, and says, “You came.” It’s too dark for her eyes to see quite how wide his smile spreads, but her fingertips can.

She smiles through gathering tears. “You stayed.”

He bends down a little, she thinks to kiss her again, but he doesn’t. He just looks at her, even in the two o’clock darkness.

She runs her fingers through his hair like she owns it. He folds her closer in his arms. And she looks up at him and says, “You still owe me an orgasm.”

* * *

It isn’t pretty, how they rush upstairs, or graceful. Rey takes off her flip flops, the better to run, and in the process she drops her key down the stairs and Ben runs back down for it, but not before he pins her against the handrail and kisses her with his hands pressed to the wall beside her head. He drags himself away to sprint down the stairs, snatch the key, and run back up, taking the steps three at a time. Even when they finally make it to her door, as Rey fumbles with the key in the lock, Ben’s mouth savages her neck and his hand creeps down to the juncture of her thighs.

She’s on fire, alight with the certainty of his want for her. It doesn’t take his hand cupping her mound through the fabric as he humps against her outside her door for her to feel how wet she is. Her body has been waiting for hours. For years, really, but she didn’t know it.

As soon as her shaking hands finally slot the key in the lock and turn it, he scoops her up in his arms, kicks the door closed behind them, and heads for the bedroom with such long strides Rey imagines they’re a stretch for even his legs.

“The door,” she says breathlessly. “Ben. The door.” He looks confused, baffled by the existence of something in the universe other than her, so she says, “I need to lock the door.”

He doesn’t let her; he tosses her onto the bed and turns on his heel with a grunted, “I will.”

He’s back before she can do anything, before she can _think_ , and she looks up expectantly, waiting for him to pounce. But he stops short, just inside the bedroom door. All his haste vanishes. He slowly shuts the door behind himself, then goes to the window and closes the curtains. Blocks out tomorrow’s sun. Then he slips off his shoes and pulls his shirt off and goes to the bedside table to switch on the lamp. The light makes her feel exposed, but it’s okay, because he is too. She likes it.

She likes the way he looks at her. It makes her chest ache again, but a good ache. The kind of ache that reminds you you’re alive.

She tucks her calves underneath her and kneels so she can pull her nightshirt off. He’s seen it all before, so why does he still look so _hungry_ _?_ She wants him to want her exactly this much, forever. “Ben,” she pleads, “come here.”

He hesitates. “I should shower first. I’ll get you all sweaty.”

She meets his eyes without hesitation. “I’m counting on it.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, so instinctually she doesn’t even know if he meant to. “I need to wash my hands at least. Rey. Stay there. _Please_ stay there.”

He stumbles out of the room to the kitchen and she calls after him, “Now you see why you shouldn’t have done those push-ups in the parking lot!”

She can’t hear it clearly this time, but there might be a muffled swear nearly drowned out by the sound of the faucet on full blast. She thinks about what her microwave is seeing, and she smiles.

He reappears. “I swear never to do another push-up again.”

“Oh no, you can,” she says airily. “As long as you make me come afterward.”

“I’ll do them every day, then,” he vows raggedly. _It’s not just banter,_ his expression says. She could have it all—nuzzle into his outstretched hand and let him pet her, not just tonight, but tomorrow, and the tomorrow after that.

“Ben,” she says quietly, testing out his name in her mouth. Trying it on. It’s a solid name, a name for a hundred tomorrows. But first comes tonight. “I want you to eat me out. I want you to try.”

She can see his erection straining at his pants, but she doesn’t pay it any mind. Neither does he, when he answers, “Yes. Please. Fuck.”

“Lie down,” she instructs. He does, never taking his eyes off her for a second. With a boldness she didn’t know she possessed, she crawls over toward his head and is about to swing a leg over to straddle his face, but she happens to notice that her breasts hang inches from his mouth. She’d like to close the space. And this is the night that she should get everything she wants. So she does.

He lets out a small yelp of surprise, but there’s no objection whatsoever; his mouth captures her eagerly. She lets him kiss and suck and lick and caress until her nipples are shiny red with spit and pleasure, and only then does she pull away and lift her knee over him. She doesn’t lower her cunt to his face yet; she pauses on all fours and quietly says, “Ben?”

“Mm hmm?”

“I don’t think I’m going to come from this. I just want it, okay?”

“Okay,” his voice comes from between her legs. “Anything, Rey.”

His hands cradle her ass as she sinks down on him, and his mouth is waiting and _oh,_ she likes this. She likes the single-minded fervor with which he sets himself to his task, inhaling her folds and plunging his tongue into her dripping hole and laving her clit with his nose. She lets herself fall to her elbows on the bed and trusts everything between her legs to him. The waves wash over her, warm and wonderful, and they make her gasp a gasp he can’t hear and smile a smile he can’t see. It’s not building to something, but that’s okay; he said it was okay. So she lets herself be pleasured, and she leaves her smiles in the sheets.

His hands aren’t idle as his mouth goes to work: they run up and down her thighs firmly, finding curves there. She likes how his hands take what they want. She likes how she gives it to them. She likes it all.

But she’s not going to come. So she lifts herself off.

He lets out a surprised moan, bereft. “Rey,” he pants as she swings her knee back over to join its twin. His chest rises and falls with effort, and how long has he foregone air, for her? “Did you like it?”

He sits up and scoots back so he can look at her face to face. She laughs a little, mostly from joy. “Yes, Ben.” She leans forward and licks herself off his bottom lip. “Yes, I liked it.”

He kisses her first, because of course that’s the most important thing right now—they agree on that—but then he asks, “Would you let me do it again sometime?”

There’s too much of the puppy in his eyes, and she can’t look right now so she kisses his cheek and gives her _yes_ to him right in his ear.

“Rey,” he murmurs, “Rey.” He draws back and catches her face tenderly in both of his hands. “I want you to be happy. I want to make you happy. Is that okay?”

She deserves to nod, so she does. He smiles the dawn, and the sunset. She needs him.

He scoots back, against the headboard, and reaches for her. She follows without question. He props one foot on the bed so his knee points up to the ceiling, and she doesn’t know what he intends until he says, “Kneel up. Rub against me.”

She doesn’t hesitate. She plants her knees on either side of his foot and holds on to his knee with both hands for leverage as she shuffles forward, to position her mound against the flat of his kneecap. She rocks forward rhythmically, slowly at first. He looks up at her in wonder and it doesn’t matter how awkward this is, it doesn’t matter how embarrassed she thinks she should be, it doesn’t matter that she’s using his knee as her personal sex toy, it only matters how it feels. And when she grabs onto his knee a little harder and shifts her pelvis and grinds against him, her body realizes something.

There _is_ a place that this can build to. Somewhere she’s never been.

Pleasure pools at the base of her spine, not just warm but _hot._ This isn’t languid, this isn’t gentle circles of slim fingertips, this is raw. She humps up against him harder, and it may be uncomfortable, how much she’s bending his knee, but not a word of complaint leaves his mouth. She grinds furiously, but it’s wrong, it’s not enough, and the flat of his knee won’t get her there: to that peak that’s within her sights.

“I can’t,” she gasps out, exasperated. “It’s not enough.”

“What do you need?”

“I don’t—”

“Rey, tell me.” He seizes her arms urgently. “What do you need?”

“I need _more.”_

“More what? More pressure?”

“No, I don’t know.”

“You were getting there, Rey, you felt it, right?”

“I couldn’t, I need— I don’t know!” She’s frenzied with the frustration of the pleasure that’s draining from her body.

He’s near frantic. “Use your words, _please_ tell me, I’ll make it happen. Anything.”

“I need _more._ I need more, on my clit. Not as flat. And firmer.”

“Okay.” He regains some control. He plans. She watches and clutches his knee like a lifeline. “Lie down. On your front.”

“What?”

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

“Yes.” The word comes easily.

“Lie down on your stomach, and I’ll kneel on the floor. I’ll make a fist on the bed and you can grind down that way, on my fist.”

She does it, because her body begs her to listen. It thinks he probably knows, from all the other women. His favorite part. She doesn’t care about them, though, right now, because it’s _her_ hips his forearm is trapped under, and _her_ clit that finds a knuckle. In the interim, the pleasure that had started to push her to that elusive peak dissipated, so she has to start all over. She grabs the sheets and presses herself to him and begins the slow, firm rhythm once again.

She spares him a glance, occasionally, as he watches her from his place beside the bed. As she humps his hand, the sweat gathers on her forehead and in the small of her back, and her face flushes with the effort, of lifting her weight over and over to let it press down onto his waiting hand. She doesn’t feel pretty, but maybe this is what he likes. Maybe this is what orgasms are: drenching sweat and a ruby-red face and lungs that forget to breathe. She doesn’t mean to hold her breath; it just holds itself, and every time she lets it go with a push and drags in a new puff of air it pushes her a little closer. A tingle starts in her legs, and then a twitch, and then the muscles in her hands start to seize up, and this is it, oh _God,_ this is it, she’s so close, she’s never been here before but she _knows_ it, and she uses the last of her conscious thought to gasp out, “Don’t ... look. Don’t look ... at me.”

He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t question, he just closes his eyes. She turns her head and sees. And she knows why she asked, and she knows why he obeyed.

This first one—this is just for her.

She watches him letting her have his favorite part without him, lending her his hand and asking nothing in return, and that’s when her legs lock and her head jerks back and her eyes gape as her lips part in a silent cry. There’s no control; her body is at the mercy of an electric shock of bliss. Her cunt clenches and her back arches and she’s lost—lost to the world. There’s nothing but her and her body, and the pleasure racing through her veins and locking her muscles in a straining curve of fire.

Then it recedes, slowly, leaving a shuddering behind. Her breath returns, but gradually, and her hips still rock on their own, chasing the bits of pleasure that flit by for the taking. She doesn’t know how long it lasts. She doesn’t recognize her body in this boneless heap of sweat and smiles. She doesn’t know why she hadn’t demanded this before.

It’s not until her body stills entirely that she looks over at Ben. His eyes open slowly, and he lets out a breath that sounds long-held. Her face is half nestled in the sheets, but still he can see her tired smile, and he gives her a brilliant one in return before he carefully opens his fist and slides his hand out from under her. He moves his hand out of sight so quickly, she thinks he’s trying not to let her see how red it is or how twisted his wrist was. She sees, though, and she murmurs, “Ben.”

He leans down to kiss her hairline, despite the sweat. “Rey.”

She smiles drowsily. “Your favorite part.” She’s only barely lucid, now, but she still keeps her wits about her enough not to cling to his arm when he turns off the light and lies down beside her and draws her into his chest. She needs him to be able to leave, if he wants.

He waits until she’s not quite asleep, so when the words come, they’re like a half-remembered dream.

 _“You’re_ my favorite part.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Deep breath* I am absolutely overwhelmed by the emotional response of readers to this story. I can’t thank you enough—everyone who has taken the time to leave kudos or a comment here or on Twitter. I hope eventually to have time to respond to more comments than I have (especially those sharing personal experiences, which I appreciate so deeply), but my life is conspiring to leave me with little leisure time, and I’m allocating a good chunk to writing so I don’t have a lot left to answer comments, but please know that I treasure them. I’m more responsive on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/CeliaAnd2); feel free to send me a direct message if you’d prefer.
> 
> _For those reading prior to the chapter (Spoilers):_  
>  In this chapter, Rey has an unambiguous, full-on orgasm. There have been many readers who have shared that they, like this Rey, have a hard time reaching orgasm alone or with a partner. I want to be very clear that by choosing in this story to give Rey a partnered orgasm, I don’t in any way mean to suggest that that’s necessary for a fulfilling sex life or that’s the only possible way for this Rey and Ben’s story to resolve happily. I intended, and I hope I achieved, a chapter in which the physical fact of Rey’s orgasm is less of a climax, as it were, than her decision to let someone in emotionally. I hope that reading about this Rey’s sexual fulfillment with a trusted partner isn’t painful to you, and if you think it might be, maybe don’t read past when Rey and Ben head upstairs. Take care. ❤️


	6. Loved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to the marvelous [@LaneReads](https://twitter.com/LaneReads) for the moodboard! 💛

Rey wakes not to sunlight or an alarm, but a hand stroking her arm. It’s barely dawn. She grunts a protest and goes to hide her eyes in the crook of her elbow, but she’s thwarted by a kiss on her cheek. By a _Ben._

She smiles in spite of herself, and opens her eyes. He’s propped up on one elbow next to her. He still hasn’t showered since his parking lot workout, so he smells, and his hair is cowlicked on one side where he slept on it. She can’t stop smiling, so she covers her mouth with her arm instead. “Hi,” she says, muffled.

His smile is everything. “Hi.”

“What time is it?” she asks, her mouth still safely buried in the crook of her arm.

“It’s early, 6:30. I woke you because I need to go to the bathroom and call off from work, and I didn’t want you to wake up alone and think I had left.” 

There’s a years-old pressure on her chest that she hadn’t realized was there until this instant, when it lifts. “So you woke me up?”

He nods solemnly. “Should I not have?”

Her arm isn’t across her mouth anymore; it’s wrapped around his neck to bring him down to kiss him because it’s imperative that she kiss him just now. And he lets out a surprised yelp that lasts about half a second before his elbows are planted on either side of her head on the pillow and he’s kissing her back like she’s someone who should be kissed, if she wants to. And with his mouth on hers it’s easy to believe that she is.

She shifts to burrow further underneath him so his hips rest in the open cradle of hers, and she breaks the kiss and nudges at his elbows until they scoot higher up above her head and he’s lying on her with most of his weight—not all, she can feel it in the tension of the muscles at his sides, how he’s trying not to crush her—and _this_ feels closer to perfect than anything this whole flawed world has ever given her.

“Rey,” he breaks the kiss to say, looking down at her with something like adoration. “Rey.”

She reaches up for a fistful of hair to pull him back down again, and she smiles even as she moans when he ducks down to nuzzle at her neck and kiss the hot skin he finds there. And he presses his hips up into hers and she feels him hard and wanting against her mound.

“I think we should have sex,” she says.

He groans and takes his head out from where it’s buried in her neck and says, “I should shower.”

“You could fuck me, and _then_ shower.”

His hips have started an unconscious series of small thrusts against her, desperate for her friction. “I want to make you come again.”

“I want that too.” She loops her arms under his armpits to hold onto his shoulders as he ruts.

“I want to eat you out again.”

“It’s pretty remarkable, how much we’re on the same page right now.” She smirks.

He groans. “I don’t want to be fired. I need to call my boss.” His mouth doesn’t seem to agree with his brain, though, because as soon as it’s finished talking it kisses her again. “I want to shower and make you breakfast and then make love to you and do it _right._ ” 

_A blue car. A woman and a man and a rusty blue car driving away, and a sidewalk with cracks. A heart with cracks, too._

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“What’s wrong, Rey?”

“I’m fine.” She musters a smile and kisses his nose playfully. “Go shower. Call your boss.”

“If I go now, will you tell me what’s wrong after?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Rey.”

“Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

He kisses her oh so gently. “Okay. Good.”

He extracts himself from her draped limbs, and he picks up his phone but before he leaves the room he looks back at her with a tentative, small new green shoot of a smile. Like something beginning.

She lies in her bed on her back and senses the memory of his weight and breathes. His presence is oxygen.

When she hears the shower turn on down the hall, she exerts herself to sit up and look around the room. She runs her hand across her bare abdomen and down her thigh and back up to her breast. Not to arouse herself, just to feel what it feels like: a body that’s had an orgasm. And not just that—a body where someone lives who’s cared about. Someone _cares_ about her. A whole other human who’s not in her brain cares about her.

_I love you._

_A blue car._

She shakes her head to try to dislodge the thought, and gets out of bed. She should shower too, but while it’s occupied she throws on an oversized tee-shirt and goes out to the living room. She surveys the contents of the fridge and decides on French toast. She has the eggs whisked and the griddle hot by the time he emerges with a towel wrapped around his waist. When she glances over her shoulder at him, the puppy is back for an instant in the look he gives her: the look that says _I wanted to do that for you_. But he doesn’t say anything, just comes up behind her and kisses the back of her head. He doesn’t wrap his arms around her waist, but she reaches back to take his hand and guide it there. He brings his other arm up too, without her having to ask. His biceps bulge as he pulls her into him with a sigh that she thinks is relief. It’s easier, this silent request for intimacy, when he can’t see her face.

The sun shines. The griddle sizzles. The microwave watches.

She lets herself want to be held. He holds her.

She breathes.

At length, when she turns around to face him, he keeps his arms around her. She smiles and presses up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “I’m going to shower.”

He smiles a world of tenderness. “Okay.”

She showers half in a daze, her mind struggling to reconcile all the things that have changed. Going from nothing to _all_ . It’s a plenty life has never offered before. And it is an offer: it’s up to her to take it. To lick his hand and let him pet her. She could let him take her home and curl up on his hearth and she could _belong_ there, in his life. So could he in hers. And that should be terrifying, so why isn’t it?

She puts on a fresh big tee-shirt and goes back out to the kitchen. He’s just setting the plates down on the coffee table, the French toast dusted with powdered sugar that she didn’t even know her pantry had.

She turns on the TV and puts on Netflix and resumes Chef’s Table and they don’t talk, just eat. She burrows her feet under his thigh and he lets her, and their French toasts shrink and their bellies fill. When all that’s left are sticky plates, she untucks her feet and scoots around so she can lean back against his chest. Not between his legs, this time, and without her hand between hers. But he brushes her hair aside and kisses her neck anyway.

He says, “My life hasn’t been perfect. I’ve done some things that I shouldn’t have, and other people have done bad things to me. But I’ve been talking to someone about things. A professional. I’m not a professional, but you can talk to me. If you want.”

They sit for a while in silence. 

She takes a breath.

“They were addicts,” she says, holding onto his leg for comfort. “I didn’t even know what drugs were until later, what _high_ was. I thought it was just them. You know how every child thinks their experience is universal? I thought that’s just how it was. Sometimes they took care of me, sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes they loved me, even. It was okay. I was okay. I survived, didn’t I?” She doesn’t expect an answer, she just has to say it. He strokes her arm. “I didn’t know they were going to leave, when he told me to get out of the car. I mean, sometimes they left, but they would come back. So when he told me to get out it was okay, you know? It was normal. But then she turned around in her seat and she looked at me and...” She tries to hold the tears in. “She looked at me, right in my eyes, and she said, ‘I love you.’ And then I got out. And then they drove away.” The tears threaten and her throat starts to ache, but still she says, “That’s what’s wrong. She said she loved me, and she _left._ So if you ever...” She has to fight to keep the tears at bay. Just a little longer. “I’m not saying you ever would, but if you ever wanted to say that, maybe don’t? Okay, Ben?” His name is a sob.

This time, out of all the times she’s cried while wrapped securely in his arms, is different. These tears do something new. They tilt the storage space where a lifetime of feelings is stacked, so they all tumble over. There’s nothing neat about them, nor compact. There’s no room for _her_ inside her head, with all these feelings littering the floor. So she kicks them and punches them and fills her arms with them and gives them to another pair of arms to carry instead: a pair of arms wrapped around her. It’s messy, _so_ messy, and there are so many feelings. More than any one person should have to keep. So that’s why she gives him some. And he takes them and he holds her.

She cries until she’s cried out, and it takes a long, long time, but he doesn’t mind. He offers his body as a haven. When sleep comes knocking, she succumbs. She sleeps encircled by safety.

When she stirs awake she feels his arms still there. He doesn’t move, and she thinks he might be asleep. But he smooths her hair and kisses her head and says:

“You deserve love, Rey. And you deserve someone who understands that it’s hard for you to hear that. I won’t say it if you don’t want me to. But I plan on being here, in your life, for a very long time, long enough that you’ll maybe start to feel that and you’ll want to say it to me. So whenever that day comes, I’ll say it back. But not before then.”

She twists in his arms so she can look at his face. She finds no lies.

He watches her. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

* * *

_One month in_

* * *

_Two months in_

* * *

_Three months in_

* * *

_Four months in_

* * *

_Six months in_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you.
> 
> Thank you for reading, thank you for your love and amazing comments, thank you for trusting me with your feelings. This turned into _so_ much more than I imagined, in large part because of the extraordinary reception it’s gotten.
> 
> The last thing I’ll add: there’s a reason I named this story “What You Deserve” and not “What She Deserves.” ❤️


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